


HASHMAL

by Etched_in_Fire



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Assassination, Gen, in-between rp writing thing, ul'dah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-07 14:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10362288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etched_in_Fire/pseuds/Etched_in_Fire
Summary: A betrayal.  A fall.  A resurrection.  A story of vengeance.  Ul'dah is home to the thickest of conspiracies and the darkest of secrets.  Coincidentally, it is also home to the sharpest of knives.  Vesper returns to the place where she had it all with only one thing in mind-- the fall of one of her many, many enemies.





	1. From Across the Sea

It was in the wee hours of the morning in which she took the carriage.  She left no note, no warning of her departure.  Vesper planned to be back within the week-- if all went well.  Her hands fervently combed through her short, brown hair as she sat in the back of the cart.  She fiddled with her hood, but the wind kept knocking it back.  The Seeker eventually gave up and leaned against the railing of the cart, letting the breeze ruffle her hair and clothes as it saw fit.  Her fingers drummed a happy little beat—a sign of boredom to outside, prying eyes, but a symptom of something much less mundane.  She gave a slight cough. 

The landscape of La Noscea did not call to her as the Shroud did, but she enjoyed it nonetheless.  A gentle, soft sigh from the ocean eased her into a state of both deep thought and no thought at all, her emerald gaze skimming across the backdrop to her silent departure.  Early morning smelled a certain way that appealed to her feral side and she bathed in the pure scent—trying hard to filter out the stench of chocobo. 

“Aleport’s ahead,” the cart driver informed her and Vesper silently longed to see Shihna.  But today, she was taking a boat from Aleport, the very town she had washed ashore on just weeks ago from her last encounter with the Order.  Vesper had little desire to leave La Noscea, but duty called, and she still bore lingering, festering rage from her encounter with Y’tyaka. 

Aleport was as humble and meager as it always was.   The Yellowjackets hollered at the cart driver, who hollered something back.  It all fell on deaf ears—the Seeker’s mind was preoccupied with other things.  She picked at her nails, trimming them absent-mindedly as the old wooden carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Aleport gates.  The fresh gale off of the ocean gave her the faintest taste of salt on her tongue and lips.  It was a familiar taste, reminding her of simpler days. 

“Thanks,” Vesper said, flipping a coin into the air.  The driver caught it and she hopped out of the cart. 

The seaside town greeted her quietly.  Tendrils of light were beginning to show on the horizon—the sun was coming and she was losing time with every moment that she wasted. Her eyes moved to the path towards Shihna’s house and it took much effort for her feet to not follow.  She reined herself in and moved to the docks.  Vesper had always loathed the ferry but today she was going to have to swallow her mild motion sickness and tendency to get bored in order for a greater good to happen.  She picked at her nails again, drawing a droplet of blood this time.  Her heart was violent against her chest and she had not even left the La Noscean shores yet.  Vesper smiled at her weakness and pressed onward.

A white-haired midlander greeted her, his boat tied to the pier.  The staff were mostly lalafell, donned in striped shirts and none of them looking as though they had seen twenty summers.  The hyuran man was their evident boss.  He looked to be made of thin, freckled skin stretched over jagged bone.  The callouses on his palms revealed years of toiling on the ocean.  His gaunt eyes eyed her over and the Seeker dropped some more coins into his hand.  They jingled pleasantly and his dark irises glittered in delight.  He may have looked no different than the walking bones that haunted the darker parts of the Shroud, but he smiled genuinely.  Vesper sat on the bench provided as the man began his work.  He loosened the knot and the boat began to float away, stolen by the currents.  The crew began their work with soft hums that blended nicely with the natural roar of the ocean.

She leaned against the rim of the boat, letting her eyes shut but not quite permitting herself to fall asleep.  The rocking of the ocean reminds her of a crib—soothing enough if she trusted the crew.  Unfortunately, she did not, and cracked open an eye at one of the Plainsfolk that stared so openly at her.  Vesper adjusted her sleeve so that her scar wouldn’t show, then closed her eye again.  Footsteps would warn her before an attack.  She just needed to stay vigilant enough while also resting.  It was a tedious endeavor.

Time ticked on before the ferry reached its destination.  The magnificent statue of Lord Lolorito greeted her as she disembarked.  Vesper Bay—on a normal day, she’d playfully slug whomever was unlucky enough to travel with her and say, “Hey look, it’s my bay”.  On that particular, overcast day, however, she was stone-faced upon entering the town, her bright eyes sweeping to the left then the right.  Meager people lived here, under the shadow of their superior.  A few of them watched a girl dance nearby.  She was a Seeker, too.  Vesper’s eyes locked with hers for a moment before she carried on. 

The stench of chocobo dung called to her and she trekked through town until she found the renter.  The stock they had present were unimpressive to her—the ones she had seen the knights ride in Coerthas were much, much bigger, with wider wingspans.  But, she supposed, there was seldom a need to fly in Thanalan. 

“I’ll take a chocobo,” Vesper said, jingling a bag of coins in her hand.  She set it on the counter and the man began to filter through the it.

“Where are you off to?” the man asked.

“Ul’dah,” she replied.

“Ahh, off to the big city, eh?” the renter asked her.  His smile revealed a few missing teeth.  Coupled with the way the dirt clung to his clothes, she figured him to be a man of little means.  She tossed in an extra coin and he accepted it graciously. “Gonna make more coins there, eh?”  He gestured to the girl dancing near the center of the humble hamlet.

“Not like that,” Vesper retorted with a scoff.

“A sellsword, then?” the renter asked, bushy brows raised.

“Yeah,” Vesper replied.

“Gonna be hard to compete there,” the renter advised. “They’ve got loads of adventurers there already.”

“We’ll see,” Vesper said dismissively. 

The man clearly did not know his place, as he rolled his shoulders then chimed, “You’d make better gil as a dancer.  Trust me, there’s always that kind o’ work where there’s men.” His hoot of a laughter sent a furrow to her brow and the freckled Seeker grabbed the reins to the nearest chocobo. 

“Sure, bud.  Whatever.” She said over her shoulder, mounting the bird.  He waved her off and she dug her heels into the bird’s flanks to spur it forward.

The chocobo glides over the sand roads, its feet carrying her far with each stride.  In Coerthas, she had never ridden a chocobo.  Her tribe had been too poor to afford them, and the Ishgardians had kept their best stock behind their iron gates.  Vesper leaned against the golden-plumed creature’s neck, stroking it comfortingly.

“We’ve got a ways to go,” she said to the chocobo.  It chirped in reply and she pulled up her mask so that it concealed her eyes.  Vesper lost herself to the familiarity of Thanalan shortly after.

The arid, stagnant air she breathed in tasted hot, as burning as the sun on her snowy skin.  She rolled her sleeves up, exposing her scarred right arm.  The mark from Asami’s blade was a sickly violet and Vesper was not convinced that her former master had not somehow laid a curse upon her.  Her muscles spasmed under her skin, as if on cue and the Seeker sucked a breath, as well as gave a wince.  She was going to have to have it looked at, but she did not trust any with that sort of knowledge just yet.  Perhaps a trip back to the Gridanian conjurer’s guild was needed.  She would consider it on her way back from her mission.

Ul’dah was a distant mirage, dancing in front of her with its gilded domes.  She let the bird control himself—his feet seemed to know the way without much direction.  Occasionally, she would gently pull on the reins to guide him back towards her destination.  The chocobo did not fight against her lead, and for that, she was grateful.  A few cactuar scattered at their approach, some of them shedding needles from fear and agitation.  The needles thudded into the dirt behind them and she tossed them a glance over her shoulder.  Their attempt was admirable, but Vesper was not daunted in the slightest. 

She pulled back on the reins once she neared the walls of Ul’dah.  A man, his face mostly veiled by a helm and his body clad in armor, approached her.  There was a curved blade attached to his hip but he made no move to draw it.  However, from the thudding of his boots and the curl of his frown, she could tell he was not at all pleased to see her.

“Papers?”  the guard asked her.

“You don’t need papers to enter Ul’dah,” Vesper answered with the shake of her head.  It was a good old fashioned pat down.  The guard scowled at her and offered a hand, as if waiting for something to fall into it.  Vesper let her heel tap the chocobo a bit firmly and her borrowed steed’s beak snapped at the guard.  He drew back a few steps, her scowl only deepening.  

“If you don’t give me the papers, I’ll—” the guard began.

“You’ll what?” Vesper asked him, voice as sharp as a razor. “Gut me with that blade?  Then what?  Hm?”

He fell silent.  The sun warmed her back and she cast long shadows across his concealed face.  She did not need to see his eyes to know that he was afraid.  Vesper clicks at her steed with her tongue and the bird found its way to the stables on the outskirts of the jeweled city.  She hopped off of its back, her boots thudding hard against the Thanalan sand.  It felt like an old friend under her feet, though she still felt a bitterness towards the way it shifted beneath her soles.  La Noscean land felt much safer, much more stable.  Vesper chuckled.  Perhaps it was a metaphor.  Or just strangely coincidental.

She left the chocobo at the stable and entered the gates of Ul’dah.  Her mixed feelings about the city showed in her eyes and slight frown.  There was a certain smell about the sun-baked streets that made her nose wrinkle slightly.  Ul’dah had too many memories for her to like it anymore.  There was no sense of enigma anymore.  No allure.  Her heart felt dead within her chest as she looked about the roads, where people gathered and moved about to their own rhythms.  Once, she recalled herself moving with these people, adorned in the finest things that her leader could afford for her.  Vesper tried to tell herself that she did not miss those days. 

She was only partially correct.

Vesper found her way past the Quicksand, the aroma of alcohol, sweat, and sickness wafting over her.  She recoiled, but it was a tempting hangout for her stay within Ul’dah.  The Seeker told herself to indulge later, when all was said and done.  Instead, she found her way to one of the street corners, where a shifty-eyed Dunesfolk sat behind a stall full of apples and bananas.  His glassy violet eyes fell over her with much suspicion as she approached.

“Hello, friend,” Vesper grinned.  Her voice morphed his face into a look of horror.  She held up a finger. “Ah-ah, let’s not yell anything that would bring the guards over.”

His mouth fell shut for a moment as he heaved a sigh of defeat.  “What do you want, Whisperer?  Though I hear they don’t call you that anymore.”

“You heard right,” Vesper replied, looking his wares over.  She grabbed an apple, feeling exceptionally cheeky.  The Seeker took a hearty bite and the lalafell bristled. “Anyways, have you seen this guy?” She hands the man a slip of parchment, tanned yellow over time. 

The merchant took the paper warily, unfurling it.  It took him a mere second to look over the image before his head bobbed up and down. “Yes.  He hangs out near the bazaar every now and then.  Sometimes ventures to the Goblet.”

“Figures,” Vesper frowned. “Thanks.” She dropped a small sack of gil onto the stall counter.  He merely shook his head at her.

“You’ve got nerve or bravery.  Not sure which,” he remarked sourly. 

“I’m gonna go with ‘guts’, because what I’m about to do is going to be really, really stupid,” Vesper replied.  The Dunesfolk man almost looked concerned but he scowled at her beneath his bristly mustache.  She shrugged at him then added, “If I don’t see you again, it’s been a pleasure.  For me, at least.  I’m sorry I harassed you all of these years.”  Her grin was not apologetic, however.

“Eh,” the merchant man sighed. “I’ll wish you well.  If anything ‘cause you make my boring Sundays slightly entertaining.  Even if you do sometimes threaten my life.”

Vesper clicked her tongue again, winking at the guy and giving him a double thumbs up. “Seeya.” She said to him, collecting the paper again and taking her leave of the humble stall.  There was planning to be had, and the miqo’te knew the clock was always ticking.  The opportune time would come soon.  She just needed the sun to begin its descent below the horizon…


	2. His Hubris

Cyprien Lemaire was a man of refined tastes.  His wine was aged and frosted lightly, so that there was only a touch of condensation upon the glass.  Everything he wore was gilded and trimmed with silver or gold, as if he were princely.  The Wildwood’s lime green hair was tied back, strands of it woven through and braided elegantly.  He was picturesque in his desk chair, which had been carved out of a great tree of the Black Shroud and imported from his homeland of Gridania.  Above the mantle kept in his office hung his bow, made by his own hand when he was but sixteen years of age and still aspiring to be among the Gods’ Quiver.  How his dreams had changed since then.

He lived in his own home within Ul’dah.  The Order kept Cyprien busy, but not enough to neglect starting a family with a woman belonging to a merchant family.  She was away often, of course, sleeping with anyone who would try to sate her insatiable thirst.  Cyprien was aware of this, just as she was aware that he slept with anyone whom he wanted to hold a debt over.  His marriage was a strange thing, but it was something he had grown accustomed to.  Even as free as he was, his wife controlled him no different than Asami controlled them all.  He knew the day would come when he would have to pick between the furious Doman and his sweetheart.  The Wildwood rapped his knuckles against his hardwood desk, trying desperately to ignore the paperwork in front of him. 

The noise was joined by a knocking at the door and the bidding of a servant.  It was a short-statured Dunesfolk woman, her hair tied back into twin buns.  “A messenger, sir.” The girl said with a polite bow.

“Send them in,” Cyprien said with the careless wave of his hand.

A young boy came in, covered in dirt.  He was a rat from Ala Mhigo, Cyprien knew, his thick boned structure and unkempt hair giving his stature away.  He was shirtless, his flesh marred with scabs.  The Wildwood grimaced as the boy entered, certain he would bring fleas to the carpet.

“What is it?” he asked the kid, scowling with exasperation.

“A message, sir.  From the She…. Shemmazi…?” the boy fumbled.  Cyprien’s annoyance turned to confusion and he stared clear holes through the refugee boy.  The dirt-ridden child stumbled over his words, then said, “She says she wants to see you.  Near the Sultantree.”  He paused. “She says come alone.”

“The _Shemhazai_.  Bah.  Surely she can’t be that daft,” Cyprien scoffed. “Did she tell you any special words to tell me?  Any code?” He scribbled a bit more on the paperwork in front of him.  

“No sir,” the boy answered.

“Bah.  Why do we have codes if no one is going to use them?!” the Wildwood shook his head angrily. “Tell her that I’m not interested in what she has to say unless she gives me the code.  And if she doesn’t, then she can go cry to her master.”

The Ala Mhigan’s head bobbed up and down.  When he took his leave, Cyprien’s scowl faded into a look of sheer exasperation.  His servant went to let the smelly child out, and Cyprien felt at ease in the safety of his luxurious abode.  Daintily, the Wildwood dipped his quill into the ink and began to scribble down more nonsense to appease some merchant prince of some far-off land.  His company needed their supplies, though for what, Cyprien himself was uncertain.

Asami had been more enigmatic than normal lately, keeping to herself.  Even her sister was left in the cold, and Katsumi was certainly not a fan of that.  There was rampant speculation as to what this meant. Was Asami ill?  Was she biding her time?  Cyprien himself could not say—their Ultima was a fickle woman, but she had a heart that burned like fire.  It was this determination that had kept the Order afloat, even after the sudden betrayal of Thorfinn and Nanni.  The Order was now down four of their Council—two to betrayal, two to death.  Replacing such vital roles had not been an easy task and Cyprien was beginning to wonder if Asami meant to replace them at all.

She had bothered to replace Nanni, though, with a Xaela woman of the Temut clan that had a questionable history with their own Ganzorig Buduga, the company’s Head of Healing.  Cyprien had never bothered to ask for details.  The girl was young, barely a woman grown, and the way that the doctor looked at her… well, even the Wildwood’s skin crawled.  Ganzorig would have to take the utmost care if he were to pursue the newly declared Spymaster—Asami had a penchant for taking away things that were valuable to all of the members.  Thorfinn had experienced this all too well before his betrayal… which, in hindsight, made the turn of events make all the more sense to Cyprien, though his thin lips cracked a smile when he thought of how Thorfinn had almost manage to escape with his prize.  The chuckle that came from the Wildwood was sinister and unkind on the ears.

_Well, at least Thorfinn had gotten Nanni in the last moments of his miserable life,_ mused Cyprien.  _Before they both died._

As if on cue, the windows swung open, propelled by a sudden, unexplainable burst of wind.  What strands of hair were freed from braiding or his ponytail whipped wildly, blinding him temporarily.  He struggled out of his desk chair, gnashing his teeth against the full force of Mother Nature.  His hands, refined, callous-free, and with perfect nails, flailed towards the window.  The papers on his desk danced and flung themselves across the room—some landing into the hearth to feed it. 

“Twelve be damned!” the man cursed, shoving against the window and closing them with some difficulty.  He scowled and locked the window, giving a push against it to ensure it would not so easily fling open.  The curtains were pulled to conceal the window and the bleak of the Ul’dahn night. The lights of the upper class area were magnificent, but beyond that were the slums, where the street rats hung about like the delinquents that they were.  Cyprien had no wish to see them, or let them see him from his lofty household.

He turned back to his desk and began to pick up the mess, his shadowed eyes only darkening with barely-contained rage.  Scraping up paper after paper, the Wildwood ended back in his chair with a drawn out sigh.  Some of the burnt papers were important, he knew, and explaining what happened to Asami was likely to get him a tongue-lashing at best.  She did not tolerate stupidity, and not ensuring his window was secure was likely the stupidest thing that Cyprien Lemaire had done in his life.  The Wildwood sighed and rubbed his forehead.  He kept his half-lidded gaze on the stack, flipping through them with a finger.

His tired eyes caught sight of the note amid the scrambled pieces of parchment.  Quickly, he backtracked, rising into a better posture as he did so.  It took a few seconds to find the scribbled note, but when he did, he pulled it from the documents with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.  It read very few words, written in a handwriting that rang a bell to him, but he could not yet place the origin of its tune.

 

_"DO NOT IGNORE ME."_

 

Cyprien laughed aloud—humored, if only slightly and crunched the note into his vast palm.  He let the fires have it, shaking his head all the while.  Ganzorig’s broad was young, he had to remind himself.  She did not know how to deal with the adult world yet—she followed orders and repeated what needed to be repeated.  But she was brash.  He had seen it in her lower lip, the way she pouted when she was upset.  He had seen it in her seemingly soulless eyes.  She would be a spitfire—perhaps even worse than her Sunseeker predecessor.

His eyes scanned over the various documents he had managed to save.  The ones lost would be hard to pen up again, but he was confident in his ability.  Unfortunately, after this thought came to mind, he yawned raucously, stretching his lengthy limbs out.  Sleep would have to come first—he was a weary soul.  His bedtime routine was completed quickly and the Wildwood was soon drifting off to sleep within his comfortable, feathered bed.  If he dreamed anything, it was unmemorable. 


	3. Wild Kaiser

Vesper’s lips creased into a frown at Cyprien’s lack of a response.  She had found a perch in a nearby rooftop, surveying the gilded city and its denizens from on high.  The miqo’te nibbled at her lower lip.  Stars dotted the infinite sky like blemishes upon the skin and the moon hung in a thin sliver of a crescent.  They offered little comfort and light to work with, but Vesper did not mind it.  Her eyes were not as good in the dark, but her vision was passable enough.  With the physical cues that Cyprien had given her, it was clear that she would have to try another tactic—no harm done. 

She breathed in the night air, tasting it on her tongue, and was reminded of so many other missions before this.  In those days, she would have a link pearl in her ear.  But on that particular evening, she was flying solo, basked in bitter memories and shadowed by the night sky.  The lack of a voice in a linkshell to guide her was both liberating and lonely.  She was not sure if she preferred it or not, but told herself that she would simply have to get over it.  Even though the Mythril Wings had their secrets and admitted assassins in the company, she did not want to trend on any toes.  The Order had a far reach, and some of their members were ignorant to the sins they committed.  Vesper had no doubt that her actions might be… frowned upon.  Especially after her feud with Tyaka….

_I’m a hypocrite.  I’ve known this for years, but I can’t help but be disappointed in myself._

Flames danced below her, imprisoned by the tops of torches.  Vesper stood in silence for a moment, her tumultuous feelings combating each other as they ever did.  It was a quiet war, but it tore her apart every time she thought too much about it.

_This is different.  No one else is going to get hurt.  Just the people that deserve it._

At least that was what she told herself.

The Seeker picked her way down the side of the Ul’dahn building, using what ledges she could until she had safely reached the sun-baked bricks of Ul’dah’s streets.  She took a moment to make sure her mask was secured before she passed into the light of the nearest torch.  The Flames officer that looked at her paid her little mind, but it was clear that there was uneasiness in the Midlander’s eyes.  She did not stare at him, but kept moving.  The night’s wind nipped at her cheeks and chin; Vesper nestled further into her dark tunic in order to shield herself but it was a futile effort.  All the while, her mind worked and picked at the tidbits she knew.

_Cyprien Lemaire.  Shroud-born, of Gridania.  Lived his whole life there, was part of the Gods’ Quiver.  He’s married now?  Seems like a convenient thing—girl’s from a rich family.  He always did like them young, rich, and with big tits.  She’s not that relevant, though.  I can ignore her…_

Something scurried in the shadows—a rat.  Her sharp eyes saw it as it crawled into the gutter—wormlike tail disappearing with a twitch.  Vesper wrinkled her nose.  She did not miss Ul’dah in the slightest.  Its dirty streets, its beggars, its crime… she had thought perhaps coming back would invoke sweeter memories, but she only felt disgust.

_He left the Gods’ Quiver after there was a dispute with a higher-ranked officer.  Still no idea what that was about.  Everything I looked into came to a dead end.  He was really good about covering his tracks…_

She would have to strike at a different angle, she figured.  Something a bit more recent…

_Cyprien was promoted late into the Order’s founding.  I remember now, he wasn’t part of the Valiants when we broke off to form our own company.  He was in another company that we absorbed…_

She worked through her memories, sifting as quickly as she could.  Everyone had something they cared about.  Even the coldest of hearts had cracks that could be exploited.  Weaknesses in the foundation.  She chewed at her lip, a bit more vigorously this time.  A weakness… weakness… weakness…

_The chocobo races._

Her eyes stretched wide upon the realization.  Cyprien had often taken trips away from the Goblet to the Gold Saucer.  Vesper only remembered because of his inconvenient timing; he liked to stray away from the company’s property when Asami was upset, lest she unleash her wrath upon the charismatic Wildwood.  His tactic had always worked and he had remained unscathed many times (both in pride and physically).  But his frequent vacations to the glorified casino had garnered Asami’s attention in other ways—including the purchase of white-plumed chocobo from Ishgard’s finest stocks.  A gift that Cyprien had treasured greatly, if Vesper recalled correctly.

She knew what she had to do immediately.

The Seeker picked her way towards the stables.  Under the cover of night, she could do as she pleased—if the Sunmother and luck were on her side, she could ensure her victory easily.  Even though the unknown factors daunted her slightly, she pressed onward, into the alleyways of Ul’dah, where the lowest of the low slept in the gutters.  She stole her way past bodies that moved and bodies that did not, trying to stifle the putrid smell from her nose.  There was groan from one of them and her heart tingled with an unhealthy concoction of sorrow, misery, and pity.

_Asami… Once, you said we’d get rid of things like this.  Steal from the corrupt and give to those that couldn’t afford even the basic needs.  You wanted us to save the world from evil like this._

Her pace quickened.

_You said we could change the world together.  You lied and you twisted their minds.  They don’t know right from wrong now.  They just know what fills their pockets.  That wasn’t the Order that we envisioned.  That wasn’t what I wanted._

None of this was what she wanted, but here she was.  If this was a book, she knew this was the worst possible way the author could write her story.  If it was a tale, then it was the darkest ending the orator could dare utter. 

Someone grabbed her arm and the former Whisperer whirled around, nearly giving the stranger a fist to the gut.   It was the boy from before—the Ala Mhigan child she had paid to deliver Cyprien the Hashmal her message.  His eyes were wide with childish intrigue and fright—big as the moon in the sky.  The dim light reflecting off of them, glittering like stars amid his pupils, gave her pause.

 “Can I get more gil?” his voice was like thunder through the silence and she covered his hand with a gloved hand to muffle it.

“No,” she hissed quietly. “Go away.”  She released him with a gentle shove, hoping her harshness would be enough to deter him from following her. 

 It was not.  The boy stumbled forward a few steps, turning to look back at her.  His hurt was clear in his dark eyes, but his pockets yearned further than his sense of safety and he approached her again. “Please… please…” he begged of her, smelling like the sewers and the dung that dwelled within. 

If she indulged him, she knew that she would be followed and that was simply out of the question.  She pulled the knife out and he froze, his arms falling to his sides with desperate tears in his eyes. “P-please…” he whispered this time and she felt his words tug heftily upon her heartstrings.  Vesper turned away, not able to face him. 

 “Go away, kid.”

The pittering of feet gave him away.  She turned as she saw his hands reach for her wallet.  Her leg came out and over, nailing the boy in the cheek.  He fell onto the ground in an ungraceful heap, his skin sure to bruise if it was not bleeding.  Within the darkness, it was hard to tell.

“Next time, the knife finds its home into your neck,” she warned him—a false threat, but she hissed to emphasize her barely bridled wrath.  The Seeker left the boy where he laid, giving him time to gather himself and lick his wounds.  She stole away to the city’s gates, which were guarded by a roegadyn and midlander.  They barely seemed to notice her as she slipped through, too busy staring behind glassy, careless eyes.  She knew they were not paid enough to deal with what she was about to put them through.

Thanalan greeted her with a cold wind’s kiss against her partially concealed face.  A tumbleweed comically rolled by, vanishing into the distance.  The clouds overhead threatened a dust storm—something to definitely take note of.  Vesper did not want to make her great escape in the midst of flying dirt and debris.  She began down the road, and when she was out of sight of the outside guards, she veered sharply to the left, towards where the outer stables were kept. 

The stables had been built outside of the city due to the frightful nature of the chocobos.  There were various merchants and wealthy land owners that had put in some of their gil towards winning tournaments at the Gold Saucer.  But of course they needed a place to store their birds, and the average casino stable simply would not suffice.    Rich folk threw their gil around so much that it made her dizzy—how could people be that rich?  Vesper did not understand.

The bristly foliage helped conceal the dark-garbed Seeker as she trailed back towards the Ul’dahn gates.  Her hands gently caressed the sides of low-rising trees and brush as she viewed her quarry—guarded by four of the Brass Blades.  She knelt down to a knee, taking the time to examine each of the cronies left behind to guard the racing stock of Ul’dah’s elite.  They were hired swords, not of the Immortal Flames.  They looked similar to the Brass Blades, but a keen eye could tell their difference—the shade of red was off in their garb and their scimitars bore a different handle than those handed out to the Blades.  It was likely that Cyprien had paid them, and though Vesper juggled that idea in her mind for a few moments, she concluded it made little difference to her.  All hired swords knew the risk when they signed contracts.  Their mettle was about to be tested and she could not say she pitied them.

They were scarcely paying attention anyhow.  A sniff to the air and she could detect the faintest traces of alcohol—the boys were likely treating this as a night out.  And why would they fear?  Hits were never done on stables, only the people that owned the stock.  As far as they were aware, this was easy gil. 

With her breath exhaled softly through her nostrils, the Seeker approached, not daring to stray from the shadows.  One of the men stood near a torch, his shadow dancing alongside the flame.  As it licked and lapped at the night air, she was careful to give it a wide berth.  Her aim was for the side of the stables and she reached the stable wall without much worry.  She hopped up, grabbing what nooks she could in the wood and stone to pull herself up.

  _Just one step at a time…_

Vesper could tell she was out of practice in climbing.  Her joints ached a few secondcs in, telling her that she ought to cease her foolishness and find solid land.  Vesper, of course, ignored her limbs and her joints, and carried onward.  Midway up the stable, the scar left by Asami’s blade thrummed with pain and she sucked in a deep breath, letting her eyes sting with tears.   She dangled on the wall for a moment, trying to catch her breath but feeling the unmistakable sensation of her fingers slipping…

_Ooooohhhhh no… No, no, no… nononononononononoono….!_

The Seeker scrambled against gravity and the sweat on her fingers.  She slid a small ways back, but her left foot found a nook and she steadied herself.  After a moment to get a grasp of how she had almost plummeted to her death (surely not a dramatization Vesper told herself), she proceeded onward.  The scar hummed with the threat to burn in agony, but it minded itself until she made it to the top, unceremoniously thudding her toe against the rim of the roof.

“What was that?” a voice from below asked and Vesper flattened her body against the roof.  She could hear their footsteps as they moved about in search for the noise’s source.  She held her breath for a few seconds before allowing herself to breathe out slowly, quietly. 

“Probably just another damn marmot,” someone finally broke the tension and Vesper sighed with relief, laying her head flat against the roof. 

_Close one…_

Now that she was on the roof, she had a better view.  The stable was a rectangular building, with a small guard outpost and rows upon rows of fine racing stock, kept in their stalls until they were needed at the Saucer.  Cyprien’s prize was located to the far left—convenient, Vesper considered as she walked the tall-roofed stable.  The bird in question was named Wild Kaiser—plumed in the purest of white and with a winning streak that made the fortunate Cyprien filthy rich.  Vesper grinned as she neared the bird’s stall.  She kept low to the roof—as low as she could to not alert the guards.  She poked her head down the back of the stalls, getting a nice and largely unhelpful view of the birds’ tailfeathers.  Vesper frowned—in the darkness, it was somewhat hard to make out what color each bird was.  She inwardly hoped she grabbed the right one.

Wild Kaiser was spotted in his usual stall—large to give him enough space to bed and rest wherever he liked.  She made her way carefully down into his stall, trying to be discreet as she climbed.  Her right arm gave way at the end and she tumbled into the chocobo’s stall, landing in a bale of hay.  Disgruntled, the Seeker popped upright with strands of straw sticking from her hair.  Wild Kaiser must have thought it amusing, as he gave a chirp in greeting to her.

“Eeeeeasy does it,” she whispered.  Slowly, she brought one of her hands up to his beak and he blinked at her, stamping his feet.

_If you bite my hand off, I swear I’ll make you into the biggest feast for the Mythril Wings._

Wild Kaiser did not seem to understand, but he adhered to her almost affectionate, soft cooing.  His wide, dark eyes blinked at her with curiosity and he snorted softly.  Vesper gave the creature’s beak a nice rub.  The steed gave a loud “kweh” as her fingers reached up towards his forehead.  As one of the guards glanced her way, she ducked low to the ground.  After a few moments, she peered back over the rim of the stall, seeing that the guard had turned back around.  She glanced to Wild Kaiser, smiling at him as she stroked his neck.

 “Just fooooollooooow meeeee…” She whispered to him again and he tilted his head one way then the other.

Vesper had only ridden chocobos a few times, but she knew the basics of it.  Unfortunately, she had no bridle or saddle to put onto the racing bird.  Looking over Wild Kaiser, she chewed her lip in thought.  The answer came to her in a brief recollection of her youth, when she would try to ride the aldgoats down to the lake and back.  She flicked the latch open, letting the door naturally swing out.  Wild Kaiser gave a much louder “kweh” this time and one of the guards grunted from his post. 

_Leap of faith, leap of faith, leap of faith---!_

The miqo’te threw herself at the massive bird’s side, grabbing handfuls of his plumage to hoist herself up.  It was a very clumsy endeavor, as the bird began to charge forward with zeal and excitement.  He threw his head back and called out even louder, igniting more cries from the other stabled birds.  Vesper managed to claw her way onto its back, hugging the creature’s neck.  Wild Kaiser broke free from the stable door and flapped his wings, all to the chorus of the other chocobos wanting their taste of freedom.  The white-plumed chocobo was ecstatic at his liberation and bolted almost immediately.  Vesper was reduced to a mere passenger clinging for dear life as he raced down the stone path leading from the stables to the guard outpost.

By now, the hired swords had caught on.  As two chased after her in a fruitless attempt to outrun a racing chocobo, the other two had opted to block her path with brandished blades.  Vesper’s eyes snapped wide when she saw the taller of the two begin to swing, but his movements were delayed by a layer of fear—after all, she knew he would be killed for hitting the prized bird.  From the panic in his eyes, it was clear he knew that as well.  The other hired sword dove out of the way, giving up in the shadow of the excited bird.

Wild Kaiser gave absolutely no care to the one who stayed and steamrolled him over.  There was a crack and Vesper was quite certain that the man had at least broken a leg, if not a few ribs from the impact.  The racing bird stumbled a few times, but recovered his footing.  He gave pause enough for Vesper to look back at where the man had been flung into the nearby torch, his bulky form knocking it down.

It was as if Fate itself was on her side.  What wisps of grass there were began to catch, trees quickly succumbing to the flames.  Even as Wild Kaiser charged onward, into the black of night, she could see the stables catching on fire.  By the time the bird had taken her a half mile away, the flames danced in the night sky, illuminating the distance as a giant bonfire.  Vesper marveled at it for a moment, slowing the racing chocobo as best as she could. She briefly feared that the hired swords or the other chocobos had perished, but Vesper told herself to not think like that.  

_Well… that certainly wasn’t in the plan._

She contemplated the happenings in the stable for a few moments before shrugging it off.  Cyprien was bound to pay attention to her now.  With the stables burned and his prize stolen, she could only hope he would leave the safety of Ul’dah long enough for her to make her move.  As the embers danced into the distant sky, she permitted herself a chuckle.  It was cathartic and it manifested into raucous, borderline insane laughter.  She leaned against Wild Kaiser’s neck, tears forming and keeping to her lashes.  As the adrenaline in her veins dispersed and she felt her scar being to tingle, she sagged her shoulders.  The rush still tasted so pleasant.  Vesper told herself she was going to have to do this more often.

Except, perhaps, sans the burning of stables.


	4. The Girl With the Mask

He woke up in a far less orthodox fashion, his shoulder shaken by the tiny hands of his servant.  Cyprien’s eyes snapped open and he seized the girl by the wrist, lip curling in disgust.  He nearly lifted the Dunesfolk from the ground itself, his darkened eyes glaring through her frail body. 

“What?” he snapped at her and she flinched under his merciless glare.

“A-apologies, my lord!” the girl sniffled. “T-there’s been a message… from the outside stables!”

She quivered underneath his glare.  For a moment, he wondered where he had even picked this filth up.  Her clothing was tattered at the edges, with stains of food (or was that dirt?) on the knees.  In that moment, from his sheer loathing of being woken up, he contemplated throwing her onto the Ul’dahn streets.  Curiosity at her words made him refrain from doing so, though Cyprien was certain his mood was about to sour even more.  His eyes narrowed at her, waiting for her to spit out the news. 

With great difficulty, the woman said, “T-the stables, sir… there was a… Someone a-attacked the stables!”  Her stutter only worsened as his eyes stretched wide with a mixture of blinding rage and horror. “Wild Kaiser… Y-your prized bird, sir… He’s missing.”

“What!?” repeated the Wildwood, releasing the Dunesfolk.  She crumpled to the ground, shivering as he threw his blankets off of his bed, then stomped his way towards his closet.  He rifled through his clothing, seizing a fine looking jacket of dark crimson and gilded with silver.  Cyprien tossed them unceremoniously onto his bed, a set of white pants following it. 

“Are the guards on it?” He called to the mess of a servant on the ground.  Her tears splashed the rug near his side of the bed, forming disgraceful, dark stains.  The Wildwood curled his lip at her in disgust, shaking his head. 

“Y-yes, my lord,” she said to him. “They’re w-working on it now.  But… they tell me that the only bird missing, sir… i-is yours.”

In a single moment, Cyprien Lemaire experienced clarity.  His rage subsided for a moment, swallowing back down into the depths of his chest before exploding back into his veins, fueling his very breath.  The Wildwood grabbed his clothes and began towards the bath attached to his grandiose room.   Over his shoulder, the elezen sneered, “Ready breakfast.  I will eat it on my way to the stables.”

He stripped off his clothing and turned on the faucet.  The water that poured out was icy to the touch at first, a blissful reprieve to the Thanalan sun.  But he loathed the cold and so he waited for it to warm before sliding his pale, lanky body into the water.  As he submerged himself into the waters, he found himself unable to enjoy its warmth.  His mind worked, turning like cogs in a machine, cranking out possible outcomes to this certainly unfortunate set of incidents. 

_Chinua, what are you doing?  What is so urgent that you have to contact me like this?  And what would your supposed master say about this, mm?  You know it hates it when you utter a word to another man…_

His fingers rapped the sides of the tub, making a steady, but unsettled beat.  The water came to his lower chest and he sat in silence for a while before turning off the faucet.  Cyprien mulled in the hot bath for awhile before he willed his hands to the soap and began to scrub himself.  The scent of lavender took him back to the Shroud momentarily, where he had joined Asami on her quest for justice.  It was a far cry from the organization she had now.  He was not blind to her ambitions, nor to her insanity.  She was a woman that reached for the heavens, and did not bother for anything less than that.  It was her lot in life, her destiny—that was her belief.  He stayed for the profit, and it had served him well thus far.  He knew their crimes well before the others had begun to figure it out.  For every measure of justice, there was an act of injustice—but the benefactors were different and that was what mattered.  It was a business.  A bloody, bloody business.  Thorfinn and Nanni had not seen it that way and now they were dead.  He learned from their errors quickly and as had the remainders of the council.

He lamented Vallarine and Rururiko for a moment.  Vallarine had passed, thankfully, before the betrayal.  She would have been torn between her sisterly affection and her duty.  Cyprien still pondered whose hand had been the one to end the witch.  Nanni had made it clear that her stance on the voidsent was severe, and since then he had wondered if the Seeker had done her in.  Something told him that her story about the assassin was true and Cyprien mused at what a wild card that had been.  He could not have foreseen that.  Even Asami had not foreseen that and she was, perhaps, the wisest of them all. 

The Wildwood scrubbed himself, lathering in the suds before pouring a filled basin over his head.  He washed his lengthy hair and after a few more moments of thinking, he began to drain the tub and pulled himself out of the waters.  Cyprien patted himself dry, tying his hair back into a bun.  He dried his bangs as best as he could before he donned his clothing.  The elezen checked himself in the mirror, noting the shadows dwelling under his eyes.  He made a note to sleep earlier tonight and headed out the door.

His servant had made him bacon and some biscuits.  He grabbed a handful of each on his way, tossing over his shoulder, “Pack the rest.  I’ll have it on my return.”  She said something back to him hastily that sounded like confirmation and he departed.

The Ul’dahn sunlight bathed him in a warmer aura than his bath had.  Noises from the streets reached his ears like a gentle stream of chatter.  He loved the activity of Ul’dah far more than the tranquility of his birthplace.  Even when folk had not lived under the oppression of the Elementals, the streets were too silent for his tastes.  He took a gander about the roads, decorated with vivid banners.  Cyprien strolled past them, fighting between his own thoughts and his boiling rage.  The bath had given him time to collect his thoughts—Chinua had to have a clear reason for messaging him in such an unusual way… but to take his bird and burn the stables… That was bordering treason.  Asami would be notified and Cyprien could only guess what that would mean for the headstrong spymaster.

He reached the ashes of the stable shortly after devouring his food, his pink irises moving over the still smoldering rubble.  Men stood at the ready, some of them dumping buckets onto the embers.  There was a foul stench in the air and he hoped none of the livestock had burned.  The Wildwood pinched his nose disdainfully as he approached.  To the nearest of the guards, a midlander of no consequence with a beard and scarred nose, he said, “Greetings.  I am told my bird is missing?”

“Er… aye, the white one,” the guard said. “Ran over me buddy and sent him to the infirmary.  Broken leg.  Says he saw a rider on it.”

“A rider?” Cyprien contemplated aloud.  _Chinua, no doubt, playing games on the job.  Give a damn slave freedom and they think they hold the whip._

“Says it was a woman.  Dark hair.  Didn’t get a good look at ‘er, said had a mask on.  She was seen headed towards Drybone.  But that was awhile ago.  She might’ve reached the Shroud by now,” the guard reported.

“And no one thought to stop her?” the Wildwood quirked a brow at the man, his lip curled with disgust. _And blades for hire don’t bother to use their brains.  How typical.  “You have men tracking her, no?”_

“We lost the trail somewhere near an amaljaa camp.  Couldn’t send the boys that way.   Too risky,” the guard shook his head and the Wildwood wanted to backhand him.

“Too risky for hired mercenaries?  Ones that brag themselves the best in Ul’dah?  Sounds like I should’ve put my gil towards the Brass Blades not your… whatever you’re called,” Cyprien jeered.

“We’re the Sandwolves, sir, and yes, too risky,” the guard growled.  Cyprien was mildly impressed that the man was putting his foot down.  However, the Wildwood hoped his sharp tongue had something positive to follow the statement, else he was tempted to have the man put into some legal trouble.  In all actuality, Cyprien was not sure of anything about the midlander’s past, but he was certain he could find something to exploit… something to get him thrown into the Pits… Perhaps even Halatali.  However, the guard held his tongue, dark eyes glaring up at the Wildwood. 

“If you will not go after my bird—your charge, mind you—I will speak with Lord Lolorito on whom should be handling our stables.  Because clearly—clearly, your lot is not fit for the job.  How many birds did you see burned last night, mm?  How many lords are you expecting to come banging down your door?” Cyprien retorted coldly, turning his nose up.

“Actually, as my report stated, we’re only missing the one.  The rest have been relocated to the Gold Saucer for the time being,” the guard said with a huff. “You’re welcome to track your bird, but I’m not sending my men into beastmen territory.  Not with primal activity bound to happen.  Too many raids lately.  I don’t want to see them put to the sword for the primal-madness.”

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” the Wildwood snipped angrily. “I suppose I’ll handle it myself.  Good day to you, sir.  I sincerely hope you find your balls or you may be out of work.”  He stormed off, towards the gates of Ul’dah, with mutterings of ‘cowardly fools’ under his breath.  He did not opt to return to his home, however, instead fishing out a link pearl from his pocket as he re-entered the city.

He tapped it twice, as he had been instructed to do so many years ago, and it beeped active.  “Hashmal to any who can hear.  Where is Shemhazai?  I believe she has something of mine.”

Silence.

Cyprien waited a few moments before repeating the question again.  When he was not answered, he removed the link pearl and swore angrily. A nearby lady covered her child’s ears and shot him a glare.  His options were fairly limited—he could go after Chinua or simply not and pray she did not do anything foolish to Wild Kaiser in the meantime.   Knowing her roots, however, Cyprien was not going to hold out for hope.  His mind worked out his route and he made his way to the chocobo renter’s stall.

The ride from Ul’dah to the eastern section of Thanalan was swift yet not swift enough to sate his bubbling anger.   He tried his link pearl again, to ask for back up but no one replied.  Whether or not this was another portion of Chinua’s prank, Cyprien did not know.  Each attempt to message Asami yielded naught but static and his anger grew.  He was almost unaware of the journey taking him towards Wellwick Wood, blinded by his own inner narration and thought.

_When I find her, she’s dead._

He cut through the woods when he noticed the clearly flattened brush—likely the work of a chocobo—his chocobo.  Barren branches creaked an uncanny welcome to him, and dried leaves swirled about on the desert wind, joined with grains of sand.  The skies overhead darkened the further he plunged into nature but there was no sign of rain.  For once, Thanalan seemed alien to him, despite his residence there for years now.  A noise in the wilderness spooked his bird and it flapped its wings angrily.  He stroked the chocobo’s neck until it began to yield to him, though it stamped its feet with protest.  Cyprien slowed his steed’s gait to a slow trot. 

There was an outcrop of rocks overlooking the canyon below.  Cyprien could see a silhouette standing on the lofty perch of stone.  It was only when he approached that he suddenly realized that it was not Chinua that awaited him.

_Gods… what have I stumbled into?_

Her face was veiled by a mask, the rest of her body enveloped in a dark black tunic, decorated with gold and torn at the edges.  Her boots were armored, cladding her legs up to the thigh.  Her arms were protected by bracers that covered the fists, but allotted her hands enough maneuverability to grip and grab daggers. Her ears and fluffy brown tail marked her as a miqo’te.  The way she moved indicated she had been expecting him, her arms folded over her chest and her tail tip curling.  His eyes squinted at the masked rogue and he wondered if this was some ploy by an above average bandit gang.

“What is this?” Cyprien scoffed. 

“Cyprien Lemaire,” a familiar voice declared to the woods.  She bore a mask but he could see her devilish grin—wicked and sinister to the core.  He would know it anywhere and creeping realization began to consume him.  He dismounted the bird, boots thudding onto the parched ground. 

“I don’t believe this.  You’re supposed to be dead,” the Wildwood mused, tone dark. His eyes narrowed. “Explain yourself.  Explain how you’re still alive… Nanni.”


	5. The Bringer of Order

The sun was waning in the sky, slipping past its noon zenith.  Below, the roar of water in the canyon was like a pleasant, buzzing melody. She had chosen this spot for a reason—the Hashmal would be missed among his colleagues but the canyon was vast enough to hide him.  Vast enough to cover what atrocity she was about to commit.  Strangely, though, she felt calm as she stared into his pathetically bitter eyes.  The Seeker scoured them for any traces of sympathy, any traces of warmth.  They were as cold as a Coerthan night—frosted and thirsting for blood.  

“I never died to begin with,” Vesper said coldly to her quarry, the emerald-haired Wildwood.  “So there’s your answer.”  

“Asami stabbed you. You… You fell,” Cyprien shook his head.  He did not believe what was in front of him and Vesper almost pitied him for it.  He still bought the Ultima’s lies… even if he wanted to think himself above the calculated brainwashing.

The Wildwood was unarmed as far as she could tell but he moved as though he carried the greatest weapon in the world at his side. Vesper’s brow furrowed in confusion at this—what was he playing at?  Was he trying to fool her with his charisma?  She was slightly impressed, slightly disappointed.

“Are you some resurrected corpse come back to haunt us all?” He gave a dainty sniff. “Well, you don’t smell dead at least.”

“I lived.  Through some weird stroke of luck, I managed to crawl away. To the Shroud, where the conjurers patched me up,” the miqo’te hesitated for a moment, one of her ears flitting to the side.  “I recovered. A fact that Asami has seemingly kept secret from you.”

Through his harshness, she could see the man that she had run countless jobs with.  How his rank had not done kind things to him.  There was exhaustion in his lanky frame—she saw it in the sagging of his shoulders, the shadows under his pink, bloodshot eyes. His mouth was permanently marred in a scowl.  It was ill-fitting of such a beautiful face.   But that was how Asami was—she drained people’s lives, their very essences, until they were hollow shells for her to take control.  

_Why would she hide it from them that I’m alive?  Was it to make herself seem that much stronger?  She can name us like gods and then destroy us whenever she feels like it._

Unpleasant memories flashed before her eyes.  A skeletal idol.  A woman made of stone, painted gold as the halls of the Sultana’s corridors. Wings.  An angel.  Naked bodies twisting in perfect rhythm to each other.  Her heart was complete then.  Asami’s amber eyes.  The crates as Thorfinn lifted up the lid.  Small eyes.  Frightened eyes.  Trembling lips.  Children—Gods there was children in there.  Disbelief.  She did not understand why.  Didn’t… Couldn’t…  She begged for him not to go.  Asami would kill them both.  She knew it and as soon as she confessed it to herself, she awoke from her daydream. No, this was a nightmare. Thorfinn’s dead body, his eyes gaping to the heavens as her world spins.  She picks herself up, his body having cushioned her fall… She walks. She walks… She—

Her eyes blurred from behind her mask.  She shook her head and removed the mask so that he could stare into her burning emerald irises.  Vesper saw him cower, recoiling as though he had been struck.  His shock was replaced with fear.  His primal instincts fueled her bloodlust.  

“You knew about the kids,” Vesper said to the Wildwood.  There was no question about it.  The Master of Relations dealt with foreign trade.  He was likely the one that had signed off on their transportation.  

“The kids.  The drugs.  The murders.  Yes, I knew,” Cyprien said evenly. “It was my job to know.  Asami put the knowledge into hands she could trust.”

“How many did we enslave?” Vesper asked him. “How many innocents did we kill?”

“More than you’d imagine,” sneered Cyprien.

“And you’re not sorry in the slightest,” Vesper remarked. “How typical of you.  Profiting off of pain.”  He chuckled and she pressed on, eyes narrowing, “How can you even sleep at night?”

“How can you?  Your hands are stained so red that it’s a miracle you can see your own palms from the gore,” Cyprien remarked. “I was opposed of this business at first, but it has its merits.  Take the streets of Ul’dah, for instance.  Surely you’ve seen the rats that scurry about.  And I don’t mean the animals.”

_The kids.  He’s talking about the kids._

“You think this is a way to solve the overcrowding problem?” Vesper asked incredulously.

            “Ship the unwanted to those who need.  Fuel the war industry.  It makes millions, Nanni,” Cyprien explained.  His words were the epitome of madness and they stung her.  She dragged her gaze away from him, but his voice reached her all the same. “People get hurt every day.  People are dragged into this shithole world every day—and there’s simply no room.  So they become fodder.  You are familiar with this concept—too many deer in a wood can cause problem and so you hunt them.  Their deaths provide a betterment for society.”

            “That’s disgusting,” Vesper replied.  “I can’t even believe we’re associated.”

            “Well, as far as I’m aware, you’re dead,” Cyprien remarked. “And something tells me that Asami will reward the one who makes that a reality.”

            “You know, I was hoping you’d say that,” Vesper laughed humorlessly. “You see, I made a promise.  Most people don’t often get second chances.  Or third ones.  The Sunmother, the Twelve… hell, maybe Asami’s fucked up pantheon.  There’s something out there that really wants me alive. And I think they’re trying to tell me that I have a reason for breathing.”

            “How poetic,” the Wildwood commented. “And childish.  But you always were the ones taken by flights of fancy.”

            “Speak for yourself.  Do you really think Asami is a god?  Do you think that she can make anyone to gods?” Vesper scoffed. “She might have named us after her religion, but we’re mortals, playing games with rules that we don’t even understand.  We’re nothing but criminals with fancy names and a false sense of justice.”

            “ ‘We’.  You can’t let this go and it’s adorable.  If the Spinner gave you some sort of chance at life, then that’s one thing.  But throwing it away on some fool’s errand… do you really think you can destroy the Order? Single-handedly?” Cyprien chortled. “You are hopeless.”

            “I hold grudges.  It’s a flaw of mine,” Vesper put her mask back on.  

            “I’ll be certain to tell Asami about how you died.  She really did favor you so,” Cyprien’s blade seemed to manifest from aether itself, its translucent body glimmering like starlight.  Vesper’s brows furrowed slightly at his new trick but she clicked her armguards into a battle position.

            _So this is how it’s gonna be, huh?_

She leapt down at him, her fists clenched.  His aetherial blade thrust upward at her but she curled her torso around it, spinning with a kick that caught his wrist.  The Wildwood staggered back and he used his free hand to grab her collar. The next kick went to his gut and as he doubled over, she brought both her fists down onto his head.  As Cyprien rolled over, spitting out globs of dirt, Vesper put one of her feet onto his chest, bearing over him.

            “Gods, you are rusty,” she sneered. “Been letting your lackeys do all of the work?”

            His blade had faded from existence but it returned into his palm and swiped at her, catching her thigh as she made a last-ditch effort to evade. Blood splattered onto the ground as the Wildwood rose from the dusty ground.  The trees let out shrill cries under the pressure of the wind, their commentary on the desolate battlefield.  Cyprien’s bird had bolted somewhere amid the first strikes, leaving only footprints.  Thanalan’s wilderness shrouded them from civilization for miles—they were thunder strikes in a storm, their grunts, clashes, and curses filling the silence, where birds dared not even sing.

            Cyprien’s blade clashed against her armguards and she swiped his legs out from under him.  The blade’s tip grazed her cheek as he fell back and she pursued with a swift kick to the ribs.  There was a satisfying crack and the man gave out a shout of pain.  She bent down to grab the man by the collar but he lashed out with his sword.  It drove into her shoulder and she recoiled with a gasp, staggering back.  

            Blood stained her tunic and she gritted her teeth.  Cyprien rose, dirt and mud smeared on one side of his face. There was a bruise forming under one of his eyes—she was not entirely sure how it got there, but she was certain it was her fault.  The next few blows came in a flurry—she avoided the best that she could and tried to land a few hits.  One of her punches burst into the Wildwood’s chest, sending him flying back.  Aether popped about her fists like fire and she felt her heart fluttering with emotions and adrenaline both.  It took everything within her to not pursue him into a death strike.    

            “You’re toying with me,” the Wildwood rasped with realization when the miqo’te backed up a step to let him recover. “Perhaps you’re not as cold as you’re leading on…”

            “You know, Cyprien… you were always a pompous ass, but I never wanted you dead,” Vesper shot back. “I’m hoping that you’ll wake up from your delirium.  Then we can take her down together.”

            “Take her down?  You’re a fool.  Everyone moves to the rhythm of the world.  And those who are in power control that rhythm.  We simply dance… Until the day that we conduct the beat,” Cyprien picked himself up.  His hair had fallen from its hold and flowed about his shoulders like grass in the wind. The shadows that sank into the crevices of his tired face seemed to thrive.  His cruel smile spread wide over his crusted lips, hardened and dry from the elements. “But perhaps you’re right.  Perhaps that time has come.”  His arms opened in an embrace.  “Perhaps it is time to defeat the Order.”

            “Yes…” the Seeker nodded in agreement, but her tone was hesitant.

            “After all, it’s only a matter of time… Only ever a matter of time…” There was a rough cackle fringed in his voice. “… Everyone dies eventually, no?”

            “Cyprien…”

            _There’s something not right…_

Apprehensively, Vesper touched the hilt of her knife, marked by twin crimson feathers and the sigil of a ram.  Cyprien staggered forward, arms still spread in welcome. “Asami is truly mad.  She speaks to bones and thinks the crystals can make her into a god.  But who am I to judge?  I bought into it.  You did too. For awhile.” His smile was grim. Bitter.  The elezen wobbled forward a step. “Do you want to conduct the orchestra, Nanni?  I do… I do…”

            _He’s insane._

            “I don’t want to be like her,” Vesper retorted. “I want to be like _me_.”

             “Then conduct your melody and make the world bend to it,” he whispered back, a mere few feet from her.  His blade returned in hand at the last moment, jabbing forward at her chest. Vesper side-stepped it, her knife bared. She let it kiss Cyprien’s chest, impaling his heart.  His final utterance was a gurgle coupled with a waterfall of blood down his neck.  By the time he hit the ground, he was dead.

            She swayed on her feet, grabbing hold of a tree trunk to keep steady.  Her conjurer’s wand had somehow survived the brutal fight and she began to channel through it to heal her wounds.  Her focus was broken by the unmistakable sound of footsteps, thudding through the deer trails in the woods.  Ears perked, she could hear their cries.

            “Lord Cyprien!  Where are you?”

            “Lord Cyprieeeeen!”

            “Hello?  Anyone out there?”

            _The Order._

Her breath caught in her lungs and she retreated back, pressing herself against the tree trunk.  A sideways glance was tossed at the cliffside but she told herself not to.  It was far too risky.  Sorely wishing she had not turned Wild Kaiser free, she began to run, one of her hands still pressed against her shoulder wound.  Stumbling through the trees, she left Cyprien to the crows that were gathering, their caws chasing her like a ghost through the barren woods.  The wind whipped through her hair, guiding her away from the gory mess.  Fingers trembling, she did not look back.  

_You chose this path._

As soon as the phrase passed through her mind, she wondered whom exactly she was thinking it to.

 

* * *

 

The scene of their battle would go undiscovered for a half hour longer, when a Xaela woman would eventually find it with intrigued sanguine eyes and a heart that trembled in the very confines of her body.  For all of Vesper’s planning and scheming, she had made one fatal error and the Xaela pulled it from Cyprien’s fresh corpse, turning the familiar knife over in her hands.  Her thumb ran over its ram design, feeling the grooves of the decor.  

“Bremigrym,” Chinua Tumet said softly, casting a glance towards her lumbering friend. “Does this knife seem familiar to you?”

“Aye, Lady Chinua,” the Sea Wolf gave a low bow. “I believe I saw the Ultima ‘erself give it to the ol’ Shemhazai a few years back.”

The Xaela’s head inclined with understanding and she picked up the discarded sheath. “That… is what I thought.” Her usual melodic voice was fraught with worry, her sanguine eyes flitting from the blade to the Sea Wolf.  His turquoise eyes gleamed but he said nothing.  Chinua strapped the knife to her hip and gave the fallen Hashmal one last look over.  Despite his agape maw, he almost seemed at peace.  She had never seen him that way before– he had ever sheltered himself behind a layer of sarcasm and pessimism.  She pondered how the Order had affected him.

“I just received a message from…” Bremigrym said suddenly, touching the link pearl in his ear. “… It’s from Lord Oktai, Lady Chinua.”  She flinched immediately, but the dreaded words came. “He’s asked that you return to the Goblet at once.”

“Mm,” contemplated the Xaela. “Tell him I will return shortly.”  She turned from the corpse and walked away, not comforted in the slightest by the uncanny cawing of crows.


End file.
